Whistler's Angel (22 page)

“Hey, you wanted me tell you where he goes.”

Aubrey groaned softly. “And you have, Mr. Lockwood. I would point out, however, that the course he is on might lead to Nova Scotia just as easily.”

“Why’d he swing so wide of the Florida Coast?”

Aubrey looked at the chart. “That would seem to have been the thing to do if he had no intention of going there.”

Aubrey sat back. He saw Lockwood’s color rising. Very well, he thought. A good dog deserves a bone. He decided to soften his expression and his voice. He said, “Mr. Lockwood, you’re doing good work. But surely you see that no action can be taken until we know what Whistler is up to, if anything. Do you have any other intelligence?”

“Not yet. I wanted you to know something’s changed.”

“And I thank you. I do. You’re a very good man.”

“You mean that?”

“I do. You’ll keep me advised?”

“I’ll track him every inch of the way. Just one thing. If we take him, I get him. Agreed?”

“Who else but Vern the Burn would I call on,” Aubrey asked, “to handle
such a delicate matter?”

Claudia had realized that Maine would have to wait. It was only late April. There would still be snow in Maine. Her original thought would make the most sense. They would cruise the Georgia coast and the Carolinas until it warmed up further north.

They did the Sea Islands, St. Simons and Jekyl, never stopping for more than one day and a night. They continued up the coast until they reached Savannah. It was time to find a place to settle in for a while and use it as a base for further cruising. Whistler elected to by-pass Savannah because he’d be expected to check in with Customs. He’d be expected to do so anywhere along the coast, but the requirement was seldom enforced in most of the smaller marinas. He found such a place a few miles farther north, just over the South Carolina border. He rented a slip at Palmetto Bay on the inland side of Hilton Head Island.

They refueled and reprovisioned and settled in for a stay. The island would do nicely as their base. They rented a car and they toured Savannah. A week later they drove up to Charleston. Claudia was especially charmed by both cities. Both had large historic sections with gracious old homes that were virtually unchanged since before the Civil War. She’d described them to her mother over the phone. Her mother, who adored old homes with old gardens, and had never been to this part of the country, remarked that she’d love to see it someday. Claudia agreed that she must, but why wait? Hop a plane, she said, and fly into Savannah. Hilton Head had an airport, but it didn’t take big jets. Just as well, she said, we’ll all meet in Savannah. We’ll do the town, then drive back to the island and maybe go to Charleston by boat. Adam doesn’t think that his father would join us, but he might if you call him and nag him.

Whistler had to step in and disappoint them both. At least for a while, he said. He told Claudia that he’d rather sit tight for a time, see if anyone seems interested in their comings and goings. His father, in any case, would feel the same way. He certainly would never join them on a boat. It would be an unnecessary risk.

“Adam, I think that must be over. I do. Wouldn’t something have happened by now?”

“I suppose.”

“All we’ve had all year were those three false alarms. They were not even that. I was overreacting.”

“No, you weren’t; you were listening to your instincts, and that’s good. The mistake would have been to ignore them.”

“Well, next time I’ll try to be a bit more selective.”

“No harm, no foul. You did fine.”

“And those people must know you’re not looking for trouble. Don’t you think they’re content to let sleeping dogs lie?”

I would not be, thought Whistler, but maybe they are. “L
et’s keep our eyes open all the

same.”

Lockwood entered Aubrey’s office with his chart once again. He asked Aubrey, “You know anything about Hilton Head Island?”

“It’s where rich men go to play golf until they die. I gather that’s where the boat is.”

“They made a few stops, but this is the longest. And he still hasn’t checked in with Customs.”

“Implication?”

“What else? He’s supposed to be out of the country, right? So the guy doesn’t want it on record that he’s back. Ask me, he’s there for some kind of meeting and he doesn’t want anyone to know it.”

“A meeting with whom?”

“I don’t know. His old man.”

“Not likely, I think. He could meet with his father anywhere in the world
without risking your steely-eyed scrutiny. Perhaps he has merely put in for repairs.”

“For that, you haul the boat. He’s just sitting. Hasn’t moved. I’m telling you there’s something going on.”

“Without evidence?”

“Gut feel. I know I’m right about this.”

“No, Mr. Lockwood, you
want
to be right. You are less than objective in this matter.”

“So, okay, we find out. I can put someone down there. I can put someone

Whistler doesn’t know.”

“What sort of someone?”

“Not to hit him. Just to watch. And let us know what he’s up to.”

“Someone to observe. Only that?”

“I’ll send Kaplan. You know Kaplan? Oh, that’s right, I guess you don’t.”

“Your electronics whiz, as I recall.”

“Arnie Kaplan. That’s the guy. He’s the one who put the tap on the mother’s house in Denver. He’s the one who put the tracker on the boat.”

“That phone tap fell short of being state of the art. We were able to hear every fourth or fifth word, but that’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

“He says Whistler or his father must have jammed the thing somehow. You’re going to down Kaplan for that?”

“Very well. This Kaplan. He is strictly a technician? He’s a non-violent type, am I correct?”

“Shit, no. What good’s a guy who can’t do what needs doing?”

“Mr. Lockwood…read my lips. He’s to take no sort of action.”

“He won’t. Not ‘til you say so. And not without me. I can have Kaplan there by tonight.”

“Very well. Please keep me…”

“Advised. Yeah, I know.”

“You’re a gem among men, Mr. Lockwood.”

Two weeks had gone by. There was no sign of trouble. Whistler had continued to use his real name and had used a credit card to both shop and dine out. He’d transferred some funds from his own offshore account into a bank on the island. Any one of these transactions should have sent up a flare if someone’s computer was watching for evidence that he had returned to this country.

But there was nothing. No hint of interest. And, as he’d promised, he had checked in with his father. His father confirmed that his own equipment hadn’t picked up any electronic buzz that involved either Whistler or his boat. He became more at ease. Perhaps Claudia had been right. He was becoming less alert, less watchful by the day. Islands seem to do that to people.

That was not to say that life was entirely idyllic. There were still decisions to be made. On this day, for example, he was faced with the question of whether to eat in or eat out. The decision was made for him when he saw a plump grouper that a fishing boat had brought in. On his dock were several fisherman who supplied the island’s restaurants with the item called the catch of the day. Coming in, they would usually give a toot of their horns, a signal that boat owners should come take a look before the best of the catch was snatched up.

He bought the grouper. He decided on the menu. He had some creamed corn, fresh tomatoes, sweet onions. He and Claudia would eat beneath the shade of the Bimini. They would sip a chilled wine, admire the sunset, and then go for a nice long walk and a swim before settling in for the night.

The yacht club nearby had an unlit pool that was off in a corner, surrounded by trees, and almost never used in the evening. The water, after sundown, was warmer than the air. Most nights it gave off a layer of mist that made it all the more perfect for a languid swim. And all the more private should Claudia decide that her swimsuit was an un-needed hindrance.

If he’d stuck with that decision, there would still have been a shooting. If he’d stayed on the boat and cooked up the grouper, a man he’d never heard of would probably have been murdered by some other men he’d never heard of either. This island would no longer be so gentle a place, but neither he nor Claudia would have been involved. They would have been two miles away when it happened. And it wouldn’t have turned into a blood bath.

What had changed his plan was that Claudia had gone shopping. She returned to the boat with three new blouses she’d found, all on sale at a seasonal clearance. On the rare occasion when she did treat herself, she showed a girlish, almost guilty excitement. She would want to model them for him.

He was kneeling on the slip when she came down the ramp. He was cleaning the grouper, tossing scraps to the gulls. He stopped to admire her as she approached. So did everyone else on the dock. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d bought and to tell him how deeply the prices had been slashed. She set her shopping bag down and laid out its contents. She asked him what blouse he liked best.

Whistler never knew how to answer that question. His rule for offering an opinion about her clothing was to wait for her to give him a hint. She saw his hesitation. She said, “Wait. I’ll try them on.”

She stepped onto the boat and stripped off her top before he could say a word to stop her. She wore no bra; she seldom did. All that remained was her scarf. Never mind that other people were coming and going or that heads were popping up on other boats. Never mind that one dock boy would have walked into the water, had he not first bumped into a piling. This was another otherworldly thing about her. Ever since her white light sent her back as an angel, she had never displayed the slightest awareness that her body might have that effect.

Her nudity, however, lasted only a few seconds. She slipped into the first blouse and shook out her hair. She brushed a fawn-colored wisp from her eyes, looked up and awaited a reaction.

He said, “Hmmm.” Non-committal. Still neutral.

“Okay, wait.”

She repeated the procedure with the other two blouses, two more intervals of unabashed nudity. All three had long sleeves, open throats, high wide collars. She seldom wore any other cut. She rolled the sleeves to mid-forearm, tucked in the hems, and each time made a slow pirouette for his benefit. The first blouse had been pink, the second, emerald green. The third had blue and white vertical stripes and little epaulets on the shoulders. He guessed that she might have saved her favorite for last.